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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26637961">Dreams + Intrusive Thoughts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto'>impossiblepluto</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>MacGyver (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Jack Dalton (MacGyver 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:28:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,299</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26637961</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack has dreams where he dies. Mac has intrusive thoughts where he does. </p><p>MacGyver September Whump Event, Day Two</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jack Dalton &amp; Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Dreams + Intrusive Thoughts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So, apparently I can only write fics now with an extrinsic deadline. I'm going to ride this MacGyver September Whump wave as long as I can. If the idea sounds familiar, I mumbled about this in the tags of a gifset a while back. </p><p>Thanks for reading.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jack dreams. A lot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some of them are nice dreams. Sometimes they involve a ranch in Texas and a horse and a dog. Sometimes an open road and the top down on a classic muscle car. Sometimes it’s a dimly lit bar and a seventies classic rock playlist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Usually, it’s a deck with a fire pit and a view of the LA skyline where h</span>
  <span>e’s surrounded by the people he loves. They’re safe and whole and healthy. There are no secrets and the only danger is that James Hetfield will come and tell him that he’s banned from ever singing their songs again at karaoke night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once, he was mistaken for Bruce Willis, mobbed by fangirls, and kidnapped by Alan Rickman and no one, not Mac, not Nicki, not Patty believed him when he explained that’s why he was late for their dream-briefing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those are the good dreams. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d be less of an insomniac if there were more of the good dreams. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d spend more nights in his own apartment than camped out on Mac’s couch. Or staying up way too late on Mac’s deck. Or sprawled on the other side of Mac’s bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because, in most of his dreams, he dies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s buried alive or crushed by quicksand or free falls in a plane when the engine mysteriously quits on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And those dreams, those aren’t even the bad ones. It’s not pleasant, that’s for sure. He could definitely do without them. And not that he’s fine with dying in his dreams, cause there’s something distinctly unsettling about that, b</span>
  <span>ut he really doesn’t like it when Mac is there with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hates it when Mac dies with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Mac dies with him in way too many of his dreams. Not that he tells the kid that though. He doesn’t need Jack’s superstitious dreams wearing off on him, messing with his mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Plus, having dreamt the dream, he figures he can see the scenario coming and figure out a way to get Mac out before it goes bad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Part of the problem is, he can’t always tell how his dream is gonna go. There’s no rhyme or reason, no clue that something in the dream world is going to go bad. Because as often as the frontman from Metallica shows up complimenting his vocals, sometimes he cackles in the crowd as Jack is electrocuted by his microphone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or the time that Bruce Willis garrotted him when he asked for an autograph.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or the seemingly benign post-mission grocery store trip where he slipped in a puddle of milk while running from a shopping cart bearing down on him, Indiana Jones-style, and he fell into a freezer where he died.<br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tells Mac about all his crazy, messed up, insane dreams. Especially the ones where he dies in increasingly bizarre ways. If he doesn’t joke about it, he’ll be paralyzed by the fear that death is lurking around every corner. Just because it is, doesn’t mean that’s what he should be focused on in the middle of a mission. It's a distraction for himself and for Mac, sharing the many and varied ways that death finally catches up with him, while Mac saves the day, or ridicules the dream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Usually both.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Teasing Jack and poking holes in his dream death scenarios is a good way to pass the time during ex-fil or give Mac’s brain a different problem to chew on while he’s disarming a bomb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or so Jack thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac’s been quiet since the back-half of the mission. Since he got the casing of the bomb opened and discovered that it was a more complicated build than he thought. His eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed in concern. He leaned back on his heels running a hand through his hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got this?” Jack asked, ducking his head, trying to catch Mac’s gaze, but those blue eyes were vacant. Absent. Scanning the room as if searching his surroundings for a solution. Each breath came a tick too fast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mac?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kid flinched then visibly shook himself, looking up at Jack in surprise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Mac rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “Yeah. I’ve got a plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Jack said, still watching Mac closely. “Okay. Good. You’ve got a plan. Plans are good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you’re not gonna like it,” Mac gave a crooked grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Course not. It’s never a plan I’m gonna like,” Jack grumbled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just get ready to run.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack watches as the doctor shines his penlight into Mac’s eyes. The kid recoils away from the light before muttering a quiet, “sorry” and holding still. Focuses on holding still. Tension thrumming under his skin. Practically vibrating with… stress? Anxiety? The aftermath of adrenaline?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac barely sat still the whole flight home. Tinkering and puttering. Running restless fingers through his hair. Folding paper clips an1d pacing the length of the plane. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure you’ll tell me it ain’t possible, but you mind not testing the structural integrity of the plane while we’re a couple thousand feet in the air?” Jack studied Mac. Eyes at half-mast, footsteps faltering, his gaze hollow as he tried working out whatever was tying his brain up in knots. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac rubbed his forehead with his good hand, shaking himself from his thoughts. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re about to pace a hole clean through the floor. There are easier ways to try skydiving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t a cartoon, it would take years of continual, consistent pacing to generate enough friction to even start a groove in the floor, let alone--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Instead of testing that hypotenuse, why don’t you sit down for a minute. You’ve been going nonstop the last few days. You’re making me tired just watching you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac scrubbed his eyes looking like he was about to protest before his gaze landed on Jack. Taking in his pale features and the blood dried on his forehead. He dropped onto the couch lining one side of the aisle. His head dropped back and he breathed a deep sigh, eyes sliding closed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before they sprung open again with a quiet gasp. A moment later he was on his feet again, striding down the aisle with quick determined steps, before turning on his heel and retracing his steps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kept up the action through the rest of the flight. Brushing off Jack’s concerns and queries about what’s bugging him. But even now, he’s squirming on the exam table opposite Jack. Antsy and twitching. His face betrays that his thoughts are far away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So are we free to go?” Jack asks as the doctor finishes putting a row of stitches in his side and on his forehead where shrapnel from the blast caught him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac is already scooting off the table, his arm strapped tightly to his chest. His brow is furrowed and his eyes are squinty in the bright light of the exam room. Jack can see the urge to bolt on his partner’s face and truth be told, he’s feeling exactly the same. Either the doc releases them or Phoenix Med is going to have two patients go missing against medical advice later this evening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a look from Jack, Mac sits, well, if not still, at least mostly in one spot until they’ve received their paperwork and prescriptions. The kid is on edge. Maybe it’s only having one hand free and an irritating inability to fidget. More likely it’s that he’s still replaying the mission, over and over in his mind, and is in need of a distraction. Something to get him out of his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as the paperbag with their pill bottles is in Jack’s hand, Mac is out the door like a shot, staggering for just a second from the after-effects of his concussion, feet prancing as he waits for Jack to catch up. Jack exchanges a look with the doc before exiting but gives a small nod. He’s got this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kid is quiet on the drive home. Settles into his seat and leans his head against the window, but he’s not sleeping. Jack can feel the tension radiating off of him. Can see his eyes flicking and fingers flinching as he relives the mission. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac’s eyes, pupils blown so wide they were surrounded by only a tiny ring of blue, stared down at him. Steady hands pulled Jack from the rubble. Fingers that now pick at his cuticles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to order something for dinner?” Jack asks, breaking the silence, taking the winding curves that lead into the hills slowly. There’s a balance in getting Mac out of his head, starting the conversation too soon would be a mistake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac shrugs one shoulder. “Not really hungry.” He sighs. “Probably need to eat something with the meds though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack smiles as Mac fishes his phone from his pocket with a frustrated grunt and places their usual pizza order, the easiest meal to eat with one hand, finishing the call as they pull into the driveway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thirty minutes,” Mac remarks absently and Jack starts a mental countdown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On reflex, Jack catches Mac’s good arm as he stumbles getting out of the car. Righting him, steadying him, an intuitive response. He keeps a hand on Mac’s shoulder as the two limp up the walk into the house, frowning lightly when Mac doesn’t pull away from his touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna get cleaned up,” Mac says looking down and brushing off his dusty clothes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Heh, yeah,” Jack replies as he does the same. “Plenty of time before chow gets here. You need a hand with that brace?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With one hand, Mac is already pulling loose the velcro straps. “Maybe after.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Following Mac down the hallway into his bedroom, Jack rummages through the drawer in Mac’s dresser where he knows a stash of his clothes reside. He keeps an eye on Mac as he tugs the brace from his shoulder with a grimace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got it,” Mac mutters, jerking back and stepping away as Jack moves forward to assist. He raises an eyebrow. “Plastic wrap is on the desk. Need help covering your stitches?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, if you’re offering…” Jack gives a small shake of his head. “Nah, point taken. Won’t hover.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac snorts, tossing the brace onto the bed before stepping into the bathroom and closing the door firmly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack stands outside the door, listening as the water is turned on. He waits a moment for an interruption in the steady stream, and then a minute longer, making certain that Mac is alright before heading to the guest bathroom and taking care of his own clean up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even with the plastic wrap covering the stitches, he’s cautious, keeping them out of the shower stream. He suds up quickly and rinses, as much as he’d enjoy standing under the pulsing water, letting it soothe his aching muscles - when did he start aching so much after a mission? - he wants to be finished before Mac, just in case the kid needs some help. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac’s shower is still running when Jack steps out of the steamy bathroom, sweats low on hips and feet bare. He peels the tape and wrap off his side before slathering the prescribed antibiotic ointment across the row of stitches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doorbell rings, announcing the arrival of their dinner. Jack pulls a t-shirt over his head and runs a hand through his hair, shaking out excess water and fluffing what was previously his fauxhawk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack hears the shower stop as he pays and tips the driver. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pizza’s here,” he shouts as he carries the pizza boxes and two sodas out to the deck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few minutes later Mac appears, also barefoot and in a comfortable pair of joggers. He’s bare-chested, deep purple bruises highlight the thin pink scars on his chest.  His brace in his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess I could use that hand now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to put a shirt on first?” Jack asks, taking the brace from Mac. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to try taking it off later,” Mac grimaces, biting his lip as Jack helps him move the joint into alignment and strap the injured limb to his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s getting chilly out here,” Jack remarks, fastening the velcro. He can feel the warmth from Mac’s skin quickly dissipating under his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac hums. “Feels good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brow lowering and eyes narrowing, Jack’s hand lands on Mac’s forehead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not feverish,” Mac rolls his eyes, pulling away. He shakes his head, sending water droplets from his damp hair flying. “You build a fire and I’ll grab a blanket.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time Mac returns to the deck, there’s a cheery flame burning. Jack dishes out the pizza, ignoring the second eye roll in as many minutes as he helps Mac get settled in the chair, blanket tucked around him but keeping his good arm free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t want to put off Mac’s appetite so he waits until Mac’s eaten a few slices and pushes his plate away before trying to broach the subject about what has him so tightly wound tonight. Making small talk about upcoming movie releases he’s excited about and his hopes for the World Series as the sun dips lower on the horizon, leaving them in the glow of the firelight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you hurtin’?” It’s a safe place to start, especially when he’s not sure what’s going on in the kid’s head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. They gave me a shot of the good stuff before they set my shoulder,” Mac says, shifting in his seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack wrinkles his face dramatically at the memory of the needle grabbing the armrest of his chair as if to steady himself and takes a deep measured breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac gives a small laugh at the theatrics. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something’s on your mind though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac opens his mouth then shakes his head. “Just tired.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack hums. “Yeah. We’ve been pretty busy lately.” He studies Mac’s face. “Kind of thought I was gonna be a goner today. Did I ever tell you I had a dream where I died just like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the dim light, Jack watches as Mac flinches and his face crumples. Biting his lip and stares into the flames, eyes growing vacant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, kiddo, what’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on now. You can tell me. I tell you everything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac snorts. “Yeah, more than I want to know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eyes soft in the firelight, waiting on Mac, watching him with concern, he refrains from pushing. Mac will tell him. Jack knows he wants to. He just needs to work through it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have dreams like that sometimes too,” Mac swallows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack nods but doesn’t say anything. He’s not surprised. Mac has seen too much death, too much violence for his young life. They’ve held each other through nightmares and flashbacks. But there’s more to this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only, I guess they’re not dreams because I’m awake. Every time we’re on a mission like that, and I’m trying to figure out what to do next, I see everything that could go wrong. All the possibilities where the mission goes bad and we die.” Mac shakes his head. “Every single time, I see exactly how it blows up in my face and there’s nothing I can do to stop it or protect you. We die and it’s my fault. And then I have to go out there and do it anyway.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Every time?” Jack whispers, heart thudding hard in his chest, hearing the pain in Mac’s voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s seen this vacant look in Mac’s eyes before. Crossing his face during a last minute, last ditch effort to save the day. He’s seen Mac wrap his arms around his chest in those moments, he thought to warm himself and joked the Mac needed more meat on his bones if he could shiver in skin-blistering temperatures but maybe it was to protect himself, to soothe himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers regaling Mac with detailed descriptions of his dreams, teasing and tempting death as a way to prove that he’s still alive and it makes his heart ache, the idea of his words causing the kid more pain. Pain that he held inside himself and never shared. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way Mac gets lost in his head as he comes up with a plan, sometimes visibly shaking himself before reaching for drain cleaner or aluminum foil. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac clears his throat, eyes fixed on the fire pit. “Yeah pretty much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The pressure plate in Afghanistan?” Jack has to ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The bridge in Paris? Cairo?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack reaches out for Mac’s shoulder and the kid shudders at the contact. Words, Jack’s greatest strength, and his biggest weakness, flee. Fail him now when he needs them. When Mac needs them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey. We’re still here,” he murmurs, moving his hand so his thumb brushes against Mac’s neck. “You did it. You won.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac looks up from the fire, eyes red-rimmed and they meet Jack’s. He breathes out a shaky breath. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack scoots off his chair, kneeling in front of Mac. “Yeah. We’re still here.” He pulls Mac forward into a hug, gently, mindful of his shoulder and bruises. “You looked death in the eye and you won. We survived.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Today,” the word is mumbled, tremulous into his shoulder and Jack casts aside caution. He grips the back of Mac’s head, cradling it against his chest, tightening his hand in Mac’s hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re enough, Mac. You are enough,” Jack’s eyes are prickling. “Whatever happens. It’s not your fault.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac sneaks his hand between them, resting it against Jack’s chest, over his heart. Finding comfort in the steadfast beat. A reminder. Proof of life. His breathing slows from the panicked gasps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack doesn’t know how long they sit there, but he would stay in this spot all night if that’s what Mac needs. The full moon is high in the sky, illuminating the deck as the fire burns down to embers. The blanket falls away from Mac’s shoulders and a cold ocean breeze ruffles his hair. Jack feels goosebumps erupt across the kid’s skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rubs his hand briskly against Mac’s good shoulder to warm him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should probably get you inside,” Jack says reluctantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac pushes away, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not alone, Mac,” Jack says meeting his eyes in the darkness. “And whatever happens, I know you made the right call. You don’t ever have to doubt that. No matter how any mission turns out, I know you did right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It gets better. Slowly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the next mission goes south and Mac gets that vacant look in his eye, Jack steps forward, not enough for anyone else to notice, just enough for his shoulder to brush against Mac’s. To break the cycle of the intrusive thoughts telling him he’s not enough, warning him that he’s going to fail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac flashes a small smile at him. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and throws himself forward, barking orders and gathering supplies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac reaches for Jack’s wrist on the ex-fil flight home, fingers pressed against his pulse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they get through it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack refrains from sharing the details of his latest death-filled nightmares. They weren’t that amusing anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time passes. Jack stays. The world continues turning because Team Improvise continues to save it and the haunted look on Mac’s face before he does something dumb fades into a memory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please tell me you have a plan,” Jack shouts as Mac scans the warehouse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah, but you aren’t going to like it,” Mac says with a grin. “This might make your list of top ten hated plans.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great,” Jack grimaces but follows Mac’s lead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, pretty sure you had a dream like this once,” Mac’s tongue is poking between his teeth. Mirth written on his face. “And I’m pretty sure you died in it.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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